


In a Fog

by spacehopper



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Fluff, Glasses, M/M, Set in Episodes 159-160 | Scottish Safehouse Period (The Magnus Archives), Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-07
Updated: 2020-09-07
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:09:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26346127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacehopper/pseuds/spacehopper
Summary: Martin always sets the tea too close, fogging up Jon’s glasses. In the fragile safety of their small house in Scotland, Jon finally understands why.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 12
Kudos: 228





	In a Fog

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank the nonnie who said, "Martin keeps placing steaming mugs of tea in front of Jon, fogging up his glasses. What Jon doesn’t know is Martin does this deliberately so Jon would take them off and Martin can stare at his face for a bit without Jon noticing." Prompting me to go on a further tangent, and then write this fic. :D

There’s something so perfectly familiar, so comforting, in watching Martin putter around making tea. Even hundreds of miles away from the Institute, sat at the rickety kitchen table in their temporary safe house, while the rain pounds down outside. It’s such a Martin-ish habit, almost a nervous tic, if the ritual of preparation can be called that. Setting out a chipped red mug, a saucer for the teabag and a spoon on it. The milk is pulled out of the fridge as the kettle whistles, put aside when Martin pours the boiling water, cursing softly when his fingers graze the steam.

Just milk, no sugar. Martin’s always known that, even though Jon’s never told him. It’s strange, how long it took him to realize that Martin noticed things like that. How long it took Jon to notice Martin, his own hand clutched around a cooling mug as he watched Martin leave, inhaling the fading scent of bergamot and knowing he was far too late to ask how Martin took his.

But that’s behind them. Jon shoves the chill remnants of memory aside as he returns his attention to Martin. Who he has, here and now. Who he won’t fail to watch again.

The ritual continues with a particular quirk of Martin’s, as he turns to Jon, the handle held delicately between his fingers. He sets it on the edge of the table, too close to be convenient, fogging up Jon’s glasses. It used to annoy him, the fuss of removing them to scrub the condensation away. But much like the preparation, it’s been worn down into another soothing aspect of the routine. 

As he pulls off his glasses, it’s only the briefest passing thought, just idle curiosity, as to why Martin sets the cup so close to him. Surely it would make more sense to move it further away? The angle is awkward to grab, and precarious for Martin to place. Once, Jon might’ve sneeringly attributed it to incompetence. But now he sees Martin more clearly than that. 

Martin likes to study his face. 

The thought slips into his mind all too easily, and he realizes the truth of it as the details cascade. Martin loves to look at him, taking this chance when everything blurs around Jon. A time that he can’t see, sharp eyes softening to allow Martin passage. A chance to note the lock of hair clinging to his forehead, shot through with grey, before trailing down to mark the crows feet, and enjoy the way his brow furrows slightly as he cleans his glasses. The details aren’t always the same, shaped by circumstance and the passing of time, but that’s why Martin loves it. A small archive of his own, a catalog of expressions to keep and treasure and bring out in quiet moments, to turn over and try to understand. 

Jon freezes, shirt bunched up around his fingers, pressed hard to the lens. It’s such a simple want. And not just simple, but filled with a longing worn soft and almost melancholy over years of yearning and thinking this was all he could have. Cracked now into a nervous hope, a desperate worry that he should stop, it was always silly, always a bit weird, and now he doesn’t need to, does he? But he still wants to, for many of the same reasons Jon loves watching him make tea. 

“Jon?” Martin sounds nervous, and Jon looks at him. Or tries to, but without his glasses, Martin is painted in wide brush strokes, an impression of color and sound . “Is something wrong?”

Jon almost laughs. For once, this terrible power didn’t bring him suffering and fear and a thousand horrible secrets. Certainly Martin hadn’t wanted it revealed, fearing the results. Nestled in the coiling mist is all he has, and all he can’t bear to lose, and what if Jon may yet fade on him, or transform into something he doesn’t know? The terror thrums sweet along Jon’s tongue, and he swallows it down. But no, in this the Eye is wrong. This secret isn’t terrible. Once, perhaps, it would’ve twisted and festered. But now, now…

“You can look at me, if you want.” It takes him a moment to realize how strange it sounds, to remember Martin has none of the knowledge Jon has stolen. “Sorry, that was a bit weird, wasn’t it? I just…I knew, suddenly.” His lips twitch up into a nervous smile. “That’s why you set the tea so close. I don’t mind.” Why is it so hard to just say it? “Actually, I—I like the idea of it. So you can. Look at me. Or more! If you want.” 

Good lord, he sounds like a complete idiot, doesn’t he? Though he supposes if Martin had any sense, he would’ve seen that years ago. Has seen it, and thought it with irritation and even anger more than once. He should’ve turned and run for the hills. But even through blurry eyes, Jon can see Martin moving closer. Tugging Jon to his feet, twining their fingers together while his other hand cradles Jon’s face.

This close, Jon can see Martin better. How nervous he is, lips struggling to decide on an expression. How happy he is, as he draws a finger along the curve of Jon’s cheek. Jon’s eyes slip shut for a moment, enjoying the small touches, a tracing line along the bridge of his nose, a press to the corner of his eye. 

When he looks at Martin again, he studies him in turn. The curiosity, the delight, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. The strange wonder, at something as simple as this. His heart twists, and he finds himself lifting a hand of his own. He grasps the edge of Martin’s glasses tentatively. Still not sure of his welcome, despite it all.

“Can I look? I’d like to—to study you as well.” Christ, that’s a terrible line. But Martin only laughs, and nods. And when Jon sets Martin’s glasses aside, and looks into his eyes, he finds he has never been so happy to know, and be known in turn.


End file.
